


The Man with the Rusty Axe

by StoriesByLori



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Melancholy, Other, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesByLori/pseuds/StoriesByLori
Summary: Someone visits their old home.
Kudos: 1





	The Man with the Rusty Axe

I crept down the hall of my old home, running a mangled hand along my grandfather’s bench and recoiling away only a moment later, seeing a small splinter lodged into me. The sight of the old fireplace reminded me of burning my hand, while the room I slept in showed me memories of being locked inside. As I passed by fetid toy, I walked towards the Executioner’s room. I could feel his gaze upon me as I trespassed inside.  
My eyes immediately darted to where the axe was always hung, a small wooden plank with a nail jammed into it. The candlelight across it showed the tan outline of the tool of my youth, and I was filled with visions of it. His axe was burned into my memory, a short one handed tool with a dull blade, splintered oak and faded words on the handle. It looked as though it were to fall apart at any time but it never did. The rust had corroded it to a shadow of its former self, parts of metal falling off of it every day.  
I caught a glimpse of the Executioner out of the corner of my eye. I ran, knowing he had found me, into the iron bars I called my room, locking the door behind me. I crept to the corner silently, my tears hitting the ground as I watched the door. Waiting. He was just behind the door, I knew it to be true, so I dared not move a muscle. My heavy, short breaths were being muffled by a dusty pillow, more tear stains added to one of my only friends.  
His footsteps began to ring in my years while I watched the black outline under the door, telling myself I saw him there a moment ago. My wounds began to ache and my chest started to bleed once again, staining my red shirt. With a trembling hand, I pulled over a pocketknife and waited, pointing it forward. His axe always scraped across the ground, but the sound had long since become just noise. I heard the axe swing at my from behind inside the wall, and I let out a scream into the empty house.  
He once was closer to me, the Executioner caressed the disgusting blade across my face while I grew up and I believed everything was safe. His grotesque form came and went, filling me with fear whenever he was around. I peered around every corner of my existence to see if he was there, and when he was I decided not to turn it. When he was close, his axe would pierce my skin from it gently running over my body, and that wound would always fester and grow. Even years later I could see the scars of his rusty axe all over my body, some in places no one dared to look.  
My mother was the same way, but she always tried to run away. Never together in one room, she was afraid of the monster more than I. She fought back at times, but I always saw her again with bloodstains on her clothes and a forced smile in front of me. I never understood why he left, but when I saw the scars on my mother’s back years later I knew what had happened. I had wounds from his rusty axe, but I thought I had escaped, until he came back.  
From the bed I leapt forward, shoving off of the wall and slammed into the ground. He was right behind me, and I had to get out of here. I threw all of my weight at the door and knocked it to the side, my bare feed bleeding from the course wood underneath them. My heart was pounding in my ears as I raced down the stairs, until my foot caught on an old screw. As I fell I saw him standing at the top of the stairs, gripping his axe tightly.  
When he appeared at the window that winter day, my scars began to bleed once again. My mother’s red shirt hid her blood, but I could still see it after all these years. This time, he wasn’t going away. Every corner I turned he was there, and every night I felt his axe drag across my face until he left, and I clutched my pillow until its warmth led me to sleep.  
But when I arrived at home one day, something was wrong. Blood was on the floor and the rusty axe was splattered in it, my mother on the floor. I rushed forward and tried to help her, only to see the murderer’s axe raise into the air and slash across my chest, tearing my shirt asunder and letting blood flow from my chest. I screamed in agony as he gripped me by the hair and threw me into his car, taking off without saying a word. I bled out in the backseat, losing consciousness.  
As I hit the bottom of the stairs I could feel the throbbing pain from my arm, and I forced myself up and held the broken appendage close. The front door was there, wide open as I had left it. I felt his gaze searing into the wound on my chest, as I felt sunlight graze me. I looked back as I stumbled out, breathing hard. He wasn’t there. I looked everywhere in a panic, trying to spot the Executioner to no avail. The gravel road was course, but I crawled to my car and got in, locking the doors and crying. My gaze drifted to the passenger seat.  
I stared up at the Executioner, my chest wound festering already. It was growing black and even bloodier, as the car stopped. Red and blue lights filled my vision as he was soundly ripped from his seat and thrown onto the ground, the rusty axe being taken away. A blanket surrounded me, but still couldn’t stop itself from being covered in my blood. My feigning consciousness saw a figure, a bloody, loving mother with her hand on my side, crying into my pillow.  
He was gone now, and I knew he was never at the house. My scars began to ache again, and I clutched the sides of my red shirt.


End file.
